


Nine Lives, Cat's Eyes

by veronamay



Category: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Emotional Baggage, Lookalikes, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-14
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Futurefic.  It's 2020; Sam's passing through Seattle when he meets someone he didn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Lives, Cat's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so. [](http://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/profile)[**arabella_hope**](http://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/) is hosting a crossover drabble challenge [here](http://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/397320.html), and [](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/profile)[**nu_breed**](http://nu-breed.livejournal.com/) asked for Sam/Alec, damn her eyes. And, um. I kind of went overboard. Unbeta'd.

Seattle's bouncing back pretty well from the Pulse, Sam thinks. He hasn't been here in a while, five or six years at least, but things are looking a hell of a lot better than in some other places he's been lately. There's electricity, at least, and clean water, and even decent coffee if you know where to look. Could be worse.

He's just passing through between jobs, on his way from Vancouver to LA to handle a triple possession Bobby passed on to him via Ellen. He's only staying the night, maybe two; long enough to get a decent night's sleep in an actual bed instead of bunking down in the car.

Sam stretches out his legs and leans back against the bar, facing the crowd. He forgets the name of this place, but it seems pretty popular; people coming and going all the time, beer flowing freely and the pool tables in constant rotation. The music sucks, but Sam knows he's not exactly in tune with what's selling these days. He stopped listening to new music thirteen years ago. It's a good place nonetheless, comfortable, and Sam's glad he decided to grab a beer before turning in. His motel room is grey and empty, and this place has enough light and colour to provide a distraction.

The door up on street level bangs open, and a group of people come tumbling down the stairs, laughter rising up over the chatter of ordinary conversation for a moment. Sam pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. Something tugs at him, a half-remembered recognition; but it's gone before he can pin it down, and the voices are just noise again, nothing remarkable in the crowd.

He turns around to face the bartender, pulling out his wallet to settle his tab. He's only had two beers, but he's tired, and he's got a long drive ahead of him tomorrow.

"Hey, barkeep!" comes a shout from behind him, and Sam stiffens. Before he can turn around, or even breathe, there's a warm body brushing against his left side, and that achingly familiar voice speaks again. "Can I get a refill here?"

Sam shifts to lean away from the guy's touch even as he turns to look, and gets the shock of his life when Dean lifts an eyebrow and looks back at him.

But ... it's _not_ Dean, not exactly. Not quite. This is Dean as Sam remembers him from decades ago, twenty years at least. Back when he was young and pretty and had an attitude about it. There's something different about this guy, though; something harder and softer at the same time, or maybe his edges are just in different places. It's still a hell of a punch to the gut – the guy looks just like Dean, physically. Right down to the smattering of freckles over his nose and the funny hook in his right eyebrow.

"Problem?" the guy says, and Christ, he sounds _exactly_ like Dean would, right then, so much that Sam nearly grins at him out of habit. He stops himself just in time, though, because he doesn't really feel like getting in a fight with his dead brother's doppelganger. Or ... hell, maybe this is Dean's _kid_ or something; who the hell knows, and that thought hurts and warms him at the same time.

"No problem," Sam murmurs, and looks back at his half-empty beer, putting his wallet away. He's not leaving after all. Not yet. "Sorry. You just – remind me of someone."

"I get that a lot." The guy flashes him a quick smile and leans over the bar, ignoring Sam's personal space. "Hey, barkeep! I'm dyin' over here."

Sam closes his burning eyes and takes a large swallow of beer.

"So, who's your friend?" not-Dean says, and Sam starts, looks over at him. "The one I remind you of. I got a twin out there I don't know about?"

There's something about the way he asks the question, a watchful quality that Sam knows down to his bones; it's something he learned at Dean's knee. It's deeply disturbing to see that look on this guy's face, strengthening the resemblance even more. He can't help responding to it, even while his suspicions are roused.

"I don't think so," he says, with a twist of his mouth. "But it's possible. You look a lot like my brother."

"Huh." The guy hands his empty beer jug over to the bartender with an eyeroll that speaks volumes, and Sam grins in reflex. "Where's he?"

A casual question, nothing to spook an unwary stranger; but Sam knows this dance, has danced it a thousand times, and he knows all the tells and triggers.

"He's dead," he says, straight out blunt, and watches the guy's face shut down.

"Oh. Sorry." Sideways glance from wide green eyes, sympathy masking cool assessment, calculation. "Didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay," Sam says with a little smile. "I shouldn't have been staring."

"Don't worry about it. I get that a lot too," not-Dean says with a patented Dean Winchester smirk, and Sam chokes on his beer.

Fucking _hell_. This is the spookiest shit he's ever seen. It's like having nineteen-year-old Dean right beside him, and Sam's conflicting urges are almost overwhelming: to smack him, hug him, kiss him hard enough to bruise and never let go. But this is not Dean, no matter what Sam's heart and body are trying to tell him, and so he takes a careful breath when the guy claps him high on the back and tells himself to _get a fucking grip_. Dean is dead, has been for a long time. Sam should know; he was the one Dean was hanging onto when he breathed his last, in the middle of that damned crossroads, too proud to let the hellhounds hunt him down.

He's getting himself under control, his heart slowing down, when he feels not-Dean's hand slide up over his shoulders and under the overlong hair at his neck. It's a brief, light touch, gone two seconds later, but it sends a jolt through his system that has him jackknifing straight up on his bar stool.

"What the—" he starts, and not-Dean holds up his hands.

"Sorry, man. Thought I saw a bug on you," he says, easy as pie, and it may have been thirteen years and this may be a different person, but Sam still knows Dean's bullshit when he hears it.

"Try again," he suggests, spinning round to face the guy fully, letting his shoulders widen a bit. He's not angry; surprised, more than anything, and a little weirded out, but he can't resist the temptation to wind the guy up as if he really were Dean, just to see what he'll do.

"Uh." Not-Dean grins and tilts his head. "I wanted to see where you bought your jacket?"

Sam looks down at his army surplus canvas jacket, stained and weather-beaten to within an inch of its life. He looks back up at not-Dean, who's wearing sixty dollar jeans and a cashmere sweater, and arches one eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay. Forget I said that," not-Dean says. "Look, it wasn't – it didn't mean anything. I was just looking for something."

"On my neck?" Sam asks pointedly, and the guy shifts uncomfortably.

"Yeah. But – oh, thank God." He takes a full beer jug from the bartender with visible relief, and turns back to Sam with a shrug. "Okay. I'm gonna go now. It's been fun freaking you out."

"Hey, wait—" Sam starts, but the guy's gone, disappeared somewhere into the upper end of the bar, where there are dozens of tiny tables and people blocking his view.

Visibility's down to ten feet in the dim light, and Sam's suddenly aware of how distracted he got while they were talking. Christ, anyone could've come up behind him and got a knife into his ribs, and he wouldn't have noticed a thing until his lungs collapsed. Sam hasn't been that sloppy in years. It sends a little shiver down his spine, and the spot between his shoulder blades starts to itch. He's not out on the West Coast a lot, but he's still got enemies here. He needs to watch his back.

Sam spins around on his stool again, watching the bar patrons with less curiosity and more care than before. He doesn't allow himself to search for not-Dean, but he can feel eyes on him, and it makes him curve his lips in a little smile.

"Another beer?" the bartender asks, and Sam nods without turning around.

"Thanks." He'll stick around a little longer.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Sam's had four beers and the crowd has thinned out some as people start drifting home to sleep. It's Wednesday; not many people who can afford to drink here can afford to do it all night, and there's been a steady stream of traffic up the stairs to the street for the past twenty minutes. Sam checks his watch: it's close to midnight. He starts to think about going himself, catching a few hours' sleep before avoiding the morning checkpoint traffic.

"Leaving so soon?"

He looks up and sees not-Dean standing there, a cocky grin on his face and a pool cue in his hand.

"It's getting late," Sam says casually. "Need my beauty sleep."

Not-Dean looks him over from head to foot in one long, heated glance. "Not from where I'm standing," he says, and okay, _that's_ different. Dean never looked at him like that in public. It makes him flush hot, not that anyone can see. But not-Dean's grin widens as if he knows, and Sam shifts as he feels himself start to get hard. Fuck, this is _so weird_ , but he can't stop himself.

"You playing?" he asks, tilting his head toward the pool tables. Not-Dean twirls the cue in his hand and nods.

"Was, until I ran out of competition," he says. "You up for it?"

Sam grins and drains the rest of his beer.

"Always."

Not-Dean holds out his hand. "I'm Alec," he says.

"Sam."

"Pleasure to meet you." Alec's eyes are glinting. Sam has to clench his fists to keep from throwing him up against a wall right there.

"Likewise," he drawls, and stands up. "Lead the way."

 

* * *

 

They're only five minutes into the game when Sam realises they're both trying to hustle the wrong guy. It's a struggle for Sam to keep a straight face as he watches Alec move around the table, feigning indecision and fumbling his cue, then executing a perfect bank shot that sinks the five-ball in the top corner pocket. It's like seeing Dean in action all over again, only Dean was never this obvious about it. That makes sense; back then Dean's skills were often the difference between a motel room and the back seat of the Impala, mac and cheese or pizza for dinner. Alec's not a professional hustler; he's too showy for that. Sam's not sure whether it makes it better or worse that he fleeces people for fun; either way, he doesn't care, because he's having a good time, and he can't remember the last time that happened without Dean there.

He tries not to notice how often his eyes linger on Alec as he shifts from place to place, bending and twisting to make his shots. The cue is like an instrument in his hands, moving smoothly and cleanly, no hesitations, and watching him Sam feels a low burn of heat in his belly that he can't ignore.

"Dude, seriously," Sam says at last, when Alec pretends to miss a dead-easy shot six inches off the pocket. "Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

Alec looks up at him from across the table, and Sam lets his amusement show. Alec's carefully worked the table so that Sam has exactly two shots to choose from: a near-on impossible bridge over two inches of felt, and the eight-ball. It's been an impressive show, and if Sam were anybody else he wouldn't have noticed it happening. But he knows this game back to front, and it's all he can do not to laugh at himself and Alec both.

Alec looks at him looking at the table, and straightens up with a wry grin.

"I figured," he says. "You're not nearly as dumb as you are pretty, are you?"

"Not even remotely," Sam agrees, and Alec shrugs.

"Ah well. Worth a try." He leans against the table and meets Sam's eyes. "So."

"So," Sam echoes, mouth suddenly dry.

"We gonna flirt all night," Alec asks, "or are we gonna take this somewhere else?"

That puts the whole night right on the line. Sam's been sitting here watching Alec, pretending he's Dean, and now that the question's out in the open he's not sure what to do. He wants Alec; but he's not sure if he wants _Alec_ , or if he wants a taste of Dean. And it pisses him off that he's even worrying about it, because Alec's clearly not gonna start picking out curtains afterward. Sam gets the feeling Alec's more of a tomcat than Dean ever was.

_Yeah, and what about that, huh?_ his conscience pipes up, struggling through beer and heat to be heard. _What if that is Dean's son you're eyeing up like prime beef over there?_

Well, and what if he is? Sam used to fuck his brother on a regular basis; a bastard nephew is probably a step up on the perversion scale, even with the lookalike factor thrown in.

"Hey." Alec waves a hand in front of his face. "Am I putting you to sleep here?"

Sam focuses on his face, sees the uncertainty hovering in his eyes. He's so like Dean it makes Sam's heart ache – but the look on his face right now is all Alec, and Sam wants him anyway.

"No," he says at last, letting his voice deepen. "But you can put me to bed if you want to."

Alec's eyes go dark and half-lidded, and he reaches for his jacket next to Sam's hip.

"Let's go. Right now."

Sam follows without another word.

 

* * *

 

Alec has a bike. Sam is relieved; he half expected the Impala's twin to turn up somewhere, and then he really would've freaked out. But Alec's bike is just a bike, a lime green Yamaha with barely enough room for Sam to ride pillion. He scoots up close behind Alec, slides his arms tight over cashmere and muscle and puts his mouth to Alec's ear.

"You know the motel on Green Street?" he says.

"Yeah." Alec rubs his head against Sam's cheek. "Hang on."

The streets are quiet. The bike's motor is a low-pitched growl, echoing off buildings and marking their way as they pass. Sam tucks his unprotected face into Alec's neck and holds tight, and it's not because he's scared. The throbbing underneath him works its way into his legs and spine, winding him up, loosening him out, and by the time they pull to a stop behind the Impala he's almost vibrating with tension.

Alec lets out a whistle as they pass the car on their way inside. Sam lets a hand trail over her roof and smiles.

"She yours?" Alec asks.

"Kind of. I'm more of a caretaker," Sam says, because the Impala will always be Dean's car, no matter how long he's been gone.

Alec cocks an eyebrow but doesn't push for more, and Sam leads the way inside.

They take the stairs to the third floor in silence, Alec dogging his heels so close Sam can feel his body heat. They're barely inside the room before Alec's shoving him out of the way, locking the door and leaning back against it with a slow grin.

"Okay," he says. "Now you've got me here, what are you gonna do with me?"

Sam swallows hard, wanting everything at once. He feels like a guitar string that's wound too tight; one wrong touch and he'll snap, doing God knows what damage with the recoil. It's been months since he did this with someone else, since he knew anything more than old memories and his own touch. He looks at Alec and sees Dean, right there, accessible, and his hands come up automatically to frame that familiar face.

"You ..." he starts, then closes his eyes and begins again. "Remember what I said earlier?"

"When?" Alec's leaning into his touch, hands circling Sam's wrists in a warm grip.

"You look like my brother," Sam says. Nothing more than that; but Alec's not stupid. He doesn't need it spelled out for him.

"Oh." Alec's eyes widen, and he looks at Sam in dawning comprehension. " _Oh_."

"If that's too—" Sam begins, but Alec pulls him in, slides one hand around his waist and the other into his hair.

"Oh, you're not backing out now," he breathes, and kisses Sam's answer right out of his mouth.

He doesn't kiss anything like Dean did. Sam has about five seconds to think about whether to be disappointed; then he can't think at all, because Alec's fucking _good_ at this. He's got Sam wrapped up in a grip too tight to break, and his tongue is doing things that make Sam's knees waver, licking and sucking, nipping little kisses over his jaw and down his neck. He finds a sweet spot under Sam's ear and suckles there, not quite hard enough to hurt, and Sam makes a noise in his throat and scrabbles to get Alec's jacket and sweater off.

"Feisty," Alec whispers into his ear, and backs off enough to get half naked. Sam shrugs out of his own shirts and reaches out to touch, noticing more differences: smooth skin where there should be scars, and vice versa. Alec's been through some troubles of his own, looks like.

"Bar fights?" Sam says, knowing it wasn't.

"I don't kiss and tell," Alec replies with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. Sam grins back and tugs him in by his belt loops, tracing over the button on his fly.

"I'll take that as a warning," he says, and flicks the button open as he sinks to his knees.

There are more differences down here; Sam and Dean were both cut, and Alec is not. His cock is darker, a little heavier, and when Sam puts his mouth on the tip the taste is nothing like he remembers. He's glad this time; he doesn't want to confuse Alec with Dean, doesn't want to lessen either of them like that. He tightens his mouth and slides down, taking in as much as he can, and feels Alec's hands clench in his hair.

It's been a while since he's done this, but it really is like riding a bike; a couple of stuttering sucks, aligning his breathing, and then it all clicks into place and Alec is making aborted little thrusts with his hips, trying not to choke him. Sam pulls back and swirls his tongue around the head, tasting pre-come cool and slightly bitter, and whispers, "Come on, do it."

Alec resists for about ten seconds. Then Sam reaches down to fondle his balls, his free hand urging him forward, and Alec's control breaks. Sam has time to relax his throat, just barely, and then Alec's thrusting deep, hands around the back of Sam's neck to hold him still. Sam closes his eyes and grips Alec's hips, feels his mouth stretching under the pressure, and his cock starts to throb against the confinement of his jeans. He can't reach down to relieve the ache, Alec's holding him too tight, but he doesn't care. He can wait.

"Holy ..." Alec groans above him, and pulls back with a shudder. Sam can't catch his breath before Alec's coming all over his face, sticky pulses dripping off his cheek and jaw. Sam's glad he's on his knees; he manages to hold Alec up when his knees give out, supporting his weight for a few seconds while he rides out his orgasm.

Alec slides down to the floor, jeans tangled around his knees. He should look ridiculous; instead, he looks fucked-out and gorgeous, flushed with heat. Sam leans over him and kisses him deep, stroking his softening cock until he twitches away.

"Hey," Sam says, smiling at him when Alec opens his eyes. "Having fun yet?"

"You tell me," Alec rasps, and flips Sam onto his back.

He doesn't have time to think; he hasn't even caught his breath properly and Alec's already got a hand in his jeans, dragging them down enough to get at his cock. Sam lets out a grunt when Alec's lips drag over his length; then there's warmth and wet and suction, and he has no idea what noises he's making, but he doesn't care as long as Alec doesn't stop doing _that_. Sam's no slouch in the blowjob department; like everything else, he learned from Dean, and Dean was a fucking master. But Alec's like some sort of blowjob yogi or something, because ten seconds into it Sam's writhing and twisting so much, trying to fuck deeper into Alec's mouth that Alec has to lie half across his body to keep him still. All the while his mouth works over Sam's cock, a little teeth here, a little suckling there, and this incredible pressure all over that drives him absolutely crazy. Then Alec slides a finger into his mouth alongside Sam's cock, and Sam knows what that means but he can't do anything but moan when that slick finger strokes its way inside him and presses just _so_. He thrashes under Alec's weight, arching off the ground, and explodes with a choked word of warning. Alec swallows without hesitation, licking him clean, and pulls off a few moments later with a final kiss to the head of his cock.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam says hoarsely, staring up at Alec's smug face. He's too sated to move.

"Well, no. Technically, _you_ were the second coming," Alec corrects with a wink, and Sam groans, fighting a laugh and losing.

"Oh, fuck," he sighs when he can speak again. "I can't move. I think you killed me."

"Don't worry." Alec's grin is wicked. "My powers of resurrection are legend."

"I'll bet," Sam murmurs as Alec bends down for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Weak light filters through the patched curtains, bringing Sam back to consciousness. He's sprawled out flat on the bed, covers a mess around his hips, and the space next to him is empty.

There's a note on the pillow written in bold, sure script.

_Duty calls. So should you. Quitting time's six-thirty, and you're buying. Don't even think about ducking out._

Sam looks at the cell phone number scrawled at the bottom and hesitates. He checks his watch; it's almost ten. He's hours behind schedule.

On the other hand, it's _his_ schedule. And since when did he work set hours anyway?

Sam stretches out across the bed, taking up as much space as possible, and cocks an eyebrow at Dean in his mind.

_Go for it, little brother,_ Dean says to him, and Sam answers with a grin.

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nine Lives, Cat's Eyes (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613552) by [juice817](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juice817/pseuds/juice817)




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